


The Making of a Libero

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Nishinoya's Backstory, i just wrote this to hopefully make you smile a bit mick, so hopefully it's not absolute total crap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 22:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Nishinoya was eight, he hit a volleyball for the first time.orHow Nishinoya, the libero, was born.





	The Making of a Libero

**Author's Note:**

> So this is more for a friend of mine than anything, but hey. Might as well stick it here. I can always delete it later since this is more a surprise than anything XD

When Nishinoya was eight, he hit a volleyball for the first time.

He was in the middle of a soccer game when he heard a few upperclassman yelling from the court next to the field and turned to see a ball hurtling toward the back of one of his friend’s heads.

It took about two seconds for Nishinoya to react by rushing to intercept the ball and hit it back as hard as he could.

And the look on his senpais’ faces had him forcing back a laugh. They all gawked, slack-jawed and frozen in place, except for one who jogged over and asked him if he played volleyball, and when Nishinoya answered no, the guy dragged him over to their court and stuck him on one of the teams.

His reflexes were uncanny.

Nishinoya was fast. He’d always been fast, and it wasn’t until he scored his first point against an upperclassman with a spike that left his palm stinging up a storm and heart pounding in his chest, that he knew he was supposed to play volleyball.

So he watched. He learned. He played. He spiked.

And before long he was kicking his senpais’ asses.

 

 

 

Nishinoya was twelve when he joined his middle school’s volleyball team.

He’d chosen Chidoriyama, because he’d seen how the team had played at the previous year’s Junior High Athletics Meet. They only had six members, but held their own and fought to keep the ball up, even if it was a lost cause. They didn’t win. They didn’t even come close. But how everyone moved…

He wanted to fight like that. Until the last point. Until the last centimetre gap between the ball and the ground was gone. He wanted that.

He was shorter than his teammates, sure, but he was fast, and with one spot open to a first year, Nishinoya found himself starting. 

With their lack of height in comparison to the other schools, they compensated with quick thinking, and Nishinoya’s hard and high hits off the opposing team’s blockers’ fingers. Their offense was quick and intelligent and strong.

But their defense was awful.

Still, they fought, tooth and nail to the very last ball, and when they lost, they did so with only a few points difference and one set under their belt.

 

 

 

Nishinoya was thirteen when he was benched.

After the previous year, more first year middle schoolers were interested in joining the volleyball team. There weren’t only six players anymore, the newbies were taller, and they had a real coach this time.

So as upset as Nishinoya was, he understood. This was about the team anyway, and if someone else could help more than him, then he’d be able to sit out. If they were going to get as far as they wanted to get, they needed players with height. And though Nishinoya was strong and quick, he didn’t have the height. 

So he watched.

He watched the first year wing spiker and middle blocker experience the rush that came with scoring and stopping the ball. He watched his fellow second year setter and wing spiker carry out the plays he’d watched them practice day after day after day. He watched his senpai third years support from the back with receives, and their ability to interchange their positions if required.

And he watched when—during a practice match—the first years slacked and let the ball drop because, they said, it was out anyway so what was the point in trying.

So he stopped watching.

He asked his coach to let him play, just for one rally, in the first year’s place, and though his coach had no idea why Nishinoya had asked, he let him.

And though by that time, he hadn’t been on the court in months, he slid in effortlessly.

Literally.

Every time the ball flew way out, Nishnoya was there to catch it. Every time it was about to hit the ground, he dove for it. Every time he was just the slightest bit too far away, he crouched low and caught the spike with his foot.

It was a high he’d never experienced before, and one he chased every time the rally could possibly end.

When the ball finally fell, point to Nishinoya’s side, he switched back with the first year and asked him if he still thought it was pointless if the ball would be considered out.

The first year didn’t have words.

Nishinoya sat back down on the bench.

That was the day his coach asked him if he knew what a libero was.

 

 

 

Nishinoya was newly fourteen when he played his first match as a libero.

He might not be able to score anymore, but he could make sure that his team could. He could make sure the other team couldn’t. He could make sure everyone could keep playing.

He could work so the spikers could keep spiking, so the setters could keep tossing, so their team could keep scoring. So they could make it, finally.

Their team had offense. They never stopped.

And now they had defense.

Because Nishinoya watched.

And now, he could do something about what he saw.

He trained and he trained and he trained and he played, and as as long as he watched his team’s back…

The ball never fell.

 

 

 

Nishinoya was fifteen when he won the libero award.

He blended in. Stayed quiet. Their opponents’ focus stayed on the offense while he guarded the floor and supported his team. He pushed himself harder. Dove further. Moved faster. Watched closer.

And they went farther than they ever had before.

So when the season was over, and he was the talk of the school, and high schoolers surrounded him asking where he’d decided to go after he graduates…

He decided on going somewhere close to home.

Besides. The uniforms were cool. He liked black.

 

 

 

Nishinoya was sixteen when he joined his high school’s volleyball team.

They don’t have a libero, and they’re struggling, a lot like how his middle school was when he first started playing there. But they’ve got the basis for a really amazing team.

They fought, they practiced, they played, they competed, and Nishinoya worked even harder. They went up against some killer high schools and for the first time since he’d started playing as a libero—the first time since lecturing that first year—his teammate let a ball drop that he’d saved.

And Nishinoya had never been more pissed.

But they come back to the team anyway, and this time, the first years were just as stubborn as he is, if not more. He’s looked to for guidance. He’s a senpai.

He watched, he stayed quiet, he stood back, he observed, and though he liked blending in, he liked standing out too.

His newly dyed forelock showcased that.

 

 

 

Nishinoya is seventeen when they finally make it to nationals.

He's also seventeen when he’s targeted for the first time.

It burns in his chest. It sinks in his gut. The anger. The unfamiliarity. This has never happened to him before.

He’s never not known what to do.

The anxiety churns.

He drops to the ground, pushes up on his fingertips, jumps a few times, and looks to his team.

He’s done this before. He adapts like no other. They named him the Guardian Diety. They won’t bench him this time.

He fights to stay on the court for himself. He fights for his friends to stay on the court. He watches. He waits. He’s ready.

He recieves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
